


The Piñata Man

by sincerelymendacious



Category: Psychonauts (Video Games)
Genre: Cats, Gen, I don't know, I wrote this in like three days, Nightmares, TW: Blood, although i do ship raz/dogen this fic isn't really shippy, friendship fic, sort of comfort?, tw: gore, tw: head explosions?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 05:01:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26569972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sincerelymendacious/pseuds/sincerelymendacious
Summary: An old nemesis visits Dogen in the dreamworld, and a friend visits Dogen in the waking world.
Relationships: Razputin Aquato & Dogen Boole
Comments: 6
Kudos: 19





	The Piñata Man

**Author's Note:**

> The Psychowhatsits Server is doing a cool Halloween event where we write campfire tales for the campers to tell. While writing my own tales, I thought of what would scare the campers, and what they would have nightmares about, and even though I am not writing Dogen's tale, I ended up coming up with this nightmare he might have. 
> 
> The names for Dogen's cats where megacensor's creation.

The big tree in the corner of his mother’s backyard. A picnic table with a line of empty plates going down either side. A Kidz-Bop remix of a Smash Mouth song blaring through unseen speakers. Balloons in pastel shades with ‘Happy Birthday!’ printed on them in various fonts. White and blue frosting on his fingers. The faint taste of sugar coating his mouth. 

These things combine to form Dogen Boole’s surroundings. He’s sitting at the head of a picnic table in his mother’s backyard, in the old rocker that used to belong to his grandfather. His feet are dangling over the grass-they haven’t done that in a while. Not since the last time he lived here. Other things catch his notice; the scraps of brightly colored wrapping paper littering the tabletop, a half-eaten cake in the middle, and the presence of another person on his right side. 

He turns to look and there’s Raz standing next to him, smiling and wearing the hat that Dogen had liked so much. He looks different here, softer- it’s a version of Raz that lacks all of his angles and shadows. “Hey there, Birthday Boy!” he says, voice higher and gentler than Dogen is accustomed to, “thought you’d conked out on us.” 

Dogen blinks. He’s confused because it is not his birthday and Raz should know this. “Hi, Raz,” Dogen says. The pitch of his own voice stops his words in his throat, for it is high and girlish in a way it has not been since he was thirteen. He looks down and discovers that he’s wearing his old footie-pajamas, the red ones with the zipper in the front. It dawns on him that he’s a kid, and so is Raz. “Um,” he says, looking to Raz for some sort of explanation. ‘What’s going on? Where are we?” 

Raz tilts his head, still smiling. “It’s your birthday party,” he replies, playfully poking Dogen on the point of his nose. “Don’t tell me you forgot!” 

“Oh…” Dogen glances around, uncertainty dragging the movements of his neck. “But it's not my birthday,” he says after the surrounding area provides him with no answer to the question he is about to ask Raz. “Why are we having a birthday party when it isn’t my birthday?”

Raz shrugs. “I don’t know. Just go with it.” 

Just go with it. That’s something that Raz says to him all the time. Trouble usually follows. “Where’s my mom?” Dogen feels compelled to ask. 

Again Raz shrugs. ‘Not here this time.”

Hearing that makes Dogen want to pout like the child he knows that he’s not. “I feel like she’s supposed to be here.” 

“Well, she isn’t. You’ve got me instead,” Raz replies, almost sing-song in tone. He reaches out and plucks the strap holding Dogen’s hat in place(only now does Dogen realize that it's his old one- the one he currently wears looks like a regular beanie for the most part). “Don’t look at me like that,” Raz continues when Dogen’s face screws up in confusion and worry. “I’m not the one in charge here.” He taps the side of Dogen’s head. “Complain to management if you don’t like it.” 

“Uh, no, I like it just fine.” It’s probably better to do what Raz says and just go with this strange scenario’s flow. “So...do we get to have cake now?” he asks, perking up a little. Hey, if he’s at a birthday party he may as well take advantage of it. 

Raz gestures at the half-eaten cake. “Already tore into that, sorry.” 

That was a little disappointing. “Alright,” Dogen says, willing to move on. “Um...how about we open the presents then?” 

“Did that too,” Raz says, waving a piece of shiny paper with kittens printed on it. 

Huh. Had he really slept through so much of his own not-birthday party? “Did I get anything good?” Dogen asks, curious.    
  


Raz shakes his head. “No time to worry about that now. It’s time for a party game!” 

Dogen slips his fingers under his hat and scratches at his scalp. “Which one?” 

Raz winks. “Your favorite.” 

“Huh?” Dogen hadn’t known that there was a party game he favored more than any other. 

“Look.” Raz lays his hand on Dogen’s shoulder and leans in close (he smells like the aftershave that his adult-self uses-weird) and points over at the big tree in the corner of the yard. “We’ve got a piñata set up for you.” 

But Dogen does not see a pinata hanging from any of the low-hanging branches. He sees a man in what looks like a polo and khakis standing completely still underneath the shade. The shadow cast by the tree makes it difficult to make out any of the stranger’s features, but his very presence makes Dogen tense up with unease. “Who is that?” he wants to know, for he cannot recall seeing the man when he looked over there before. 

“That’s the piñata,” Raz answers. He takes Dogen by the hand and signals that he should get out of the chair. 

Dogen does, if only because he’s used to following Raz’s lead, but the moment his feet hit the ground a cold stone of dread drops into the pit of his stomach. He stands there, frozen, as Raz pulls on his arm. “There’s something weird about that piñata, Raz,” Dogen says, swallowing nervously. “I’ve never seen one like that before.” 

“Yeah, we got him special, just for you.” Raz tugs lightly at his arm, smiling down at Dogen in a way that warms the cold fear that has settled into him. “C’mon, there’s no reason to be scared.” There’s a sparkle in his eyes, and his grin lacks its usual cockiness-it's more encouraging than arrogant. “We can walk over together, how’s that sound?” 

The offer reminds Dogen of the time Raz walked him through Coach Oleander’s minefield, and that alone is enough to make him feel safe enough to nod and follow along as Raz pulls him forward. He puts his faith in Raz and keeps his gaze fixed on their joined hands- he fears that if he looks ahead his anxiety will creep back in and send him fleeing back to the safety of the picnic table. Raz is gloveless here, and the skin of his hands is golden and rough with the callouses that comes with a lifestyle as active as Raz’s. It occurs to Dogen that he has never actually seen Raz without his gloves before now, and he can’t think of any reason why he should have gone without them here. 

Dogen does not have much time to dwell on the novelty of Raz’s bare hands, for it is not long before just keeping up with him becomes a task by itself. Raz’s legs are much longer than his own, and the pace of his steps is a brisk, confident walk, the gait of someone who always knows where he is going and what he’s going to do once he gets there. This isn’t usually a problem for grown-up Dogen, who’s of height with Raz, but child Dogen’s legs have shrunk more than any other part of his body, necessitating him to maintain a sort of hop-jog just to keep up. 

Thankfully the walk is a short one. “Here we are,” Raz says as he comes to a stop. “See? That wasn’t so bad, was it?” 

Dogen smiles up at him. “Thanks, Raz. Sorry I don’t have any arrowheads to give you this time.” 

Raz laughs. “Ha, don’t worry about it. There will be plenty of that when you smash open your pinata!” 

Piñata? Oh right, that’s what they had been walking over to. Dogen looks up and immediately feels the blood drain from his face as he takes in this...piñata that he’s apparently supposed to play with. The man in the polo and khakis stands before him, arms straight at his side. There’s something oddly familiar about this body; in the boring brown loafers, the overhang of a slight paunch over the belt, the wide-faced silver watch around his right wrist, even in the green shade of his shirt. 

It's difficult to place this body in Dogen’s memories, because the man’s head keeps distracting him, because it's not the head of a man at all. It’s equine in shape, with its long nose, round, flared nostrils and pointed ears. But Dogen can’t really call it a horse’s face, because horses are supposed to be covered in fur, and not thin layers of shredded, papery material. And its colors don’t really fit. Horses can be a lot of colors, but pink has never been one of them, and this horse-man is an entire rainbow of pink, and not pretty pinks either. These pinks make him think of the brains locked up in jars at HQ, of internal organs laying outside of where they’re supposed to be. The mane isn’t much better- it looks like it should be white, but is tinged with an ugly, off-yellow. 

It's the eyes, however, that are the worst. They’re unblinking, bloodshot, and staring right down at him. They don’t hold any emotion, but Dogen gets the feeling that he’s being judged, and none too kindly. A strangled yelp bursts out of Dogen’s throat, and he practically jumps into Raz’s arms. “I don’t like this game,” he says shakily, feeling very much like the scared child he used to be all those years ago. He fingers claw inward at the fabric of Raz’s sweater. “I don’t wanna...can’t we play something else?” 

Raz answers his pleas by prying his hands loose and pushing him away. “Dude, no,” he says. “I just bought this.” 

Dogen sniffs, more confused than hurt. The voice Raz spoke with was much deeper, like his adult voice, and hearing it emerge from his kid-self is jarring. “Sorry, Raz, but...um.” Dogen casts his eyes up to the monster towering over them both, fearful of its reaction. “I don’t really feel like playing with the piñata,” he says, lowering his tone to a whisper. 

Raz laughs, his voice thankfully back to its normal pitch. “Aw, Dogen, why not? You love this game. You play it all the time.”

Dogen shakes his head in denial. “I’ve never. I’ve never seen a pinata like this before. I don’t even think it's a real pinata.” 

At this, Raz rolls his eyes in fond exasperation. “Yes you have, Dogen. You’ve played this game like...four times.” 

“I don’t have a stick,” Dogen argues frantically. 

“You don’t need a stick, Dogen.” Raz gives him the ‘get a load of this guy’ look he’s seen him use on other people. “You’ve never needed a stick.” 

An anxiety so intense that it freezes him in his place comes over him then. He thinks he knows what this terrifying thing is leading up to, and that scares him more than the monster before him. “What…” he swallows, and then asks a question he already knows the answer to in a futile attempt to stall for time. “What am I supposed to do, then? 

Annoyance creeps into Raz’s expression. “C’mon. Don’t make me do this,” he says, adult Raz’s voice again coming out of kid Raz’s mouth. “Go, get off me-go!” 

Nothing Raz is saying makes any sense- Dogen’s not even touching him right now. “Raz, I really don’t-” 

Raz cuts him off by grasping his shoulders and pushing him towards the looming horse-man. “He’s right in there- go bug him! He loves it when you claw all his clothes up.” 

The push sends Dogen crashing into the ‘piñata.’ Dogen immediately stumbles back, falling onto his bottom. His heart is pounding and his breath comes out in short, ragged pants. Fear courses through his veins, making his body tremble with it. The piñata, for its part, regards him impassively, as though it is just waiting for him to...for him to…

He doesn’t want to do it. His hat, as old and technologically out of date as it is, should prevent him from doing it. But something’s gone all wrong, and he can feel all of his bad thoughts and emotions rocketing up to that dangerous part of his brain that made him do so many terrible things, the part of his brain that had ruled the course of his life since the day he was born. 

Dogen clamps both hands over his head and grits his teeth, as though that would prevent the overwhelming surge of explosive power from bursting forth. It's a pointless action, of course, since the blastokinesis comes from his brain, not his mouth. He manages to pull it all back before it crashes out, but he knows that will only buy him and the monster seconds at most. The pressure makes him feel like his head will crack open like an egg. “Go away” he pleads, daring to look up at the piñata. “Please, just go…” 

The piñata stays put. Because it has to- that's how this goes, Dogen suddenly remembers. Instead, the monster holds his hands out and turns his palms upward- a ‘what can you do?’ shrug if Dogen ever saw one. 

And then, in a burst of bright, liquidy red, the piñata’s horsey head explodes. Everything is suddenly all over the place- hard, white shards, goopy pink clumps, shreds of wet paper, all of it covered with red and smelling, oddly enough, like birthday cake. 

* * *

“Oh, you’re up. Thank God,” is how Raz greets Dogen when he comes out of his room. He’s peering over the back of Dogen’s couch, an expression of desperate relief on his face. “Come and get your beast off of me and I promise I won’t press charges.” 

Dogen rubs his eye with the heel of his right hand, the left being occupied with Gracie, the fluffier of his two pet cats. She was the one who had awoken him via careful application of her paw on his nose, but it was the flickering light of the television slipping through the crack of his bedroom door that prompted him to get up and investigate. He’s not particularly surprised to find Raz in his living room at two in the morning, since he has a tendency to pop in at random times. “Hey Raz,” he says, yawning as he makes his way over to the couch, Gracie as limp as a stuffed animal in his arm. He settles into the cushions and guides the poofy white cat into his lap. “What’s up?” 

“Cameron is assaulting me again,” Raz answers with an air of offended dignity. Sure enough, the skinny tabby is perched on Raz’s lap, hard at work kneading the fabric of his dress shirt. “I swear, this cat lives to put tiny holes into my clothing.” He looks down at Cameron, his glare offset by the scratches his finger generously grants to the back of the cat’s ears. “Would you get a real hobby already?”

Dogen chuckles, reaching out towards them and pressing his thumb against his middle finger like he has something between them. “Cam,” he says, whistling to catch the tabby’s attention. Cameron pauses, looks at his owner’s fingers, and then quickly decides to go back to his kneading once he establishes that Dogen does not actually have anything to offer him. “I’ve done all I can do,” Dogen concedes with a shrug. 

Raz scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Thanks so much for trying. I know that must have taken a lot out of you.” He prys Cameron off of his shirt and turns him so that he faces forward. “Look, Cam, look at that pink cat lady. Isn’t she cute? Get closer to the T.V. so you can oogle her whiskers better.” 

Dogen looks forward and sees an episode of Bojack Horseman playing on the T.V. Princess Carolyn is on screen but the television is muted, so Dogen doesn’t know what she’s saying. Raz probably hadn’t wanted to wake him, and he’s likely not paying much attention to the show anyway, since the subtitles aren’t even on. Maybe he’s just using the colorful images to decompress. It’s clear enough that Raz came here straight away after leaving H.Q, because he’s still in the suit(and gloves!) he had to wear for the press conference earlier today. Dogen looks at the T.V., looks at Raz’s suit jacket tossed carelessly onto the back of his couch, at the tie hanging undone around his neck, and decides that yes, he’ll inquire about how the press conference went. 

“Oh, great,” Raz answers as he gives Cameron (who has turned back around and resumed his biscuit-making) a long head-to-tail stroke. “I answered all of their questions like a good little performing monkey and they all threw peanuts at me for my trouble.” 

Sometimes understanding what Raz is trying to say is difficult when he covers his meaning underneath jokes and sarcasm. It’s taken Dogen a while, but he thinks he’s starting to get the hang of deciphering his partner of almost three years. “So it went well?” he asks, rubbing Gracie in the spot by her ear that she likes so much. 

“I made the agency’s gross incompetence look sexy,” Raz says with a salacious wink. 

Dogen doesn’t know what to say to that, so he just mutters a ‘good’ and lapses into silence. They sit quietly and watch the show without absorbing any of the visual stimuli presented to them. The remote is on the arm rest next to Raz, but he doesn’t bother to unmute the T.V. even though Dogen is awake. Raz has never really cared much for television, and it's likely that he just put this show on because it was the first one in Dogen’s Netflix queue. Dogen sneaks a glance at him, taking in his slouched posture, the tightness in his jaw, the curve of dark shadow under his eye and the dishevelment of his hair and thinks that his partner looks tired and annoyed. He could ask Raz how he’s doing, if he’s okay, but he probably won’t get much in the way of an honest answer. Raz knows every deflection in the book, and if he doesn’t want to talk about something, he won’t, simple as that. 

Eventually, Raz does speak, but the sudden introduction of sound into the quiet environment catches Dogen so off-guard that the words don’t register. “Huh?” he says, the very definition of eloquence. 

“Did I wake you up?” Raz repeats, eyes fixed on Cameron, who has finally grown bored with harassing Raz’s shirt and has curled up into a content little ball. 

“Oh. No, Gracie did,” Dogen replies, petting the cat between her ears. 

“Hm” Raz blows air out of his mouth and tips his head back, eyes on the ceiling. “Well. Sorry for keeping you up. If I am, I mean.”

The apology strikes Dogen as odd. For as long as Raz has been conducting these late-night visits, he has never once expressed any concern over bothering Dogen. Since, really, he isn’t bothering Dogen- most of the time Dogen doesn’t even know he’s there until he sees him in the morning. It makes Dogen feel weird, and he’s quick to reassure Raz that he did not disrupt Dogen’s sleep schedule. “I was going to be up for a while anyway. I um, had a bad dream.” He blushes upon making the confession, embarrassed by how much it makes him sound like a child.

“Bad dream?” Raz looks at him, curiosity piqued. “You wanna tell me about it?”

Dogen hesitates, unsure of what Raz will say when he tells him about the nightmare that has plagued him since childhood. In the waking world, the Pinata Man seems like a ridiculous figure; a childhood terror that shouldn’t strike as much fear into the heart of an adult as it does Dogen. It’s obvious enough to anyone who knows Dogen’s history what he’s supposed to represent, and really, Dogen’s therapists have already analyzed the dream to hell and back. What more could Raz, as insightful as he can be, possibly add that Dogen hasn’t already heard before?

But there’s something about the way Raz is looking at him. Something in the way he leans forward slightly, the way his green eyes seem so intently fixed on him, like he wants nothing more in the world than to listen to Dogen describe his nightmare. And maybe that is true, in this moment; maybe Raz is so desperate to distract himself from the things that are troubling him that he’d be willing to latch onto anything- Dogen could offer to regale him with the details of the last two hairballs Gracie coughed up and he’d listen in just as eagerly. 

“Alright,” Dogen says, placing his hand onto Gracie’s fluffy back to give him courage as he speaks. He recounts the dream in as much detail as he can recall-easy to do, since it was pretty much the same dream he’s had many times before, with the exception of Raz’s presence in it. Raz doesn’t say a word throughout the entirety of it, although he does nod here and there at the appropriate moments. And after Dogen finishes, Raz does the one thing that nobody else has ever done after listening to Dogen talk about this dream- he laughs. 

“Ah, shit man,” Raz says, running a hand through his hair as he chuckles. “That’s messed up.” 

Dogen smiles. “Yeah,” he agrees, glad to leave things at that. He supposes he should be offended, since the nightmare is one that distresses him, but Raz’s laughter makes it seem like it's something that’s not a big deal. 

“You know, I used to have a recurring dream like that too, when I was a kid,” Raz says once his amusement has subsided. 

“Oh, really?” 

“Yeah. I’d dream about this thing called Kid Lasagna,” Raz says, flashing Dogen a grin.

“Kid Lasagna?” Dogen looks at Raz skeptically, unsure of if he’s being serious or not. “What, was he like a...pasta monster?” 

“Yep,” Raz answers, nodding. “He was like, this...lasagna, with a freakin’ face baked into it.” He shudders in mock revulsion. “He had eyes that looked like a human’s eyes, and a mouth. Sometimes he spit out noodles and sauce.” 

“Oh my God,” Dogen says, the image he pictures in his head so absurdly horrible that he can’t repress a laugh. “Did he say things to you?”

“Oh yeah,” Raz says, nodding with mock-graveness. “He and I would have full conversations about how the other freaks in the show were planning on carving him up and eating him.” He looked Dogen right in the eye and lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Sometimes he’d tell me that once they were done with him, my dad was going to ground me up and make me the next Kid Lasagna.” 

Dogen winces, legitimately unnerved by that bit. “That’s, uh wow…”

“I know,” Raz says. “That dream used to scare the shit out of me. Everytime I had it, I’d always wake everyone in the caravan up.” He snorts, gazing up at the ceiling as though replaying a scene in his head. “Dion used to complain about me thrashing in the bed. I always thought he was exaggerating until Lili said the same thing years later.” He lets out a laugh that sounds too derisive to be genuine. “I guess keeping people up at night is a running theme with me.” He goes quiet for a second, looks down at the soundly sleeping Cameron. “I should probably get going.” 

Dogen blinks, for Raz cutting a visit short like this is another thing he does not usually do. “Why?” he asks, concerned. “I told you that I don’t mind having you over.” 

“Yeah, but this is taking it too far, don’t you think?” The look Raz gives him is clouded with insecurity. It’s strange seeing such an expression on the face of a person Dogen has long admired for his confidence. “I mean, it's not like I don’t have my own place where I can watch-” He cuts himself off to glance at the T.V., his face scrunching up in confusion. “...weird furry cartoons?” He shrugs and slumps further down the couch. “I don’t know. I don’t want to keep you up all night.”

“You’re not,” Dogen says. “And you’re not allowed to leave now anyway.” He smiles when Raz gives him a questioning look. “The Piñata Man could come back. I might need you to protect me from him.” 

At this, Raz laughs, a small note of relief in the sound. “Oh, right. Yeah, I’ll kick his ass for you,” he says, patting Dogen reassuringly in the shoulder. “Although, I’m not that good at nightmare party games. I might end up just running away.”   
  
“As long as you take me with you,” Dogen says, glad that Raz has snapped out of whatever funk he’d been in. “Kid-me wasn’t so good at the whole running thing.”    
  


“Yeah, yeah, I’ll carry you on my back.” Raz settles more comfortably in his seat, and picks up the remote, now more committed to relaxing. The T.V. unmutes in the middle of a confrontation between Todd and Bojack. “This show any good?” he asks over the raucous arguing. 

“It has its moments.” Dogen looks over at the hallway that leads out to the kitchen, and then decides, why not grab something to eat? He’s got the late shift tomorrow anyway. “You hungry, Raz? I’ve got some leftover pizza.” 

Raz gasps. “You’re going to offer me that after I just confided in you about the most horrifying thing my mind has ever conjured?” He shakes his head. “Bit insensitive, don’t you think?” 

It takes Dogen a moment to gauge whether or not Raz is actually offended. “It’s pizza, not pasta.” 

Raz holds up his fist “Cheese. Sauce. Carbs.” Each word is accompanied by the extension of a finger. “It’s the same unholy trio used to make the Dish That Shall Not Be Named.” He’s able to maintain an expression of seriousness for only a few seconds before it breaks down into a grin. “Just kidding, dude. I’ll eat if you are.” 

“Alright.” Dogen plops Gracie onto the part of Raz’s lap that is not occupied by Cameron and gets up, Raz’s protests (“She’s shedding everywhere!”) following him to the kitchen. 


End file.
